Fetish
by the.goal.is.greatness
Summary: Colonel Mustang is dead sexy... in a miniskirt. [Jean x Roy]


**Title:** Fetish  
**Genre:** Romance / Drama  
**Rating:** M  
**Pairing:** Jean x Roy  
**Spoilers:** N/A  
**Summary:** Colonel Mustang is dead sexy… in a miniskirt.  
**Word Count:** 2,340  
**Warnings:** PWP

**Disclaimer:** _Fullmetal Alchemist_ is not mine.

**A/N:** I know, it's been done. But _I_ wanna do it now!

* * *

It started how it always starts. With a simple comment. An off-handed comment, too be sure. A meaningless, inconsequential comment that is meant to go in one ear and out the other.

"All the officers should have to wear miniskirts."

Breda is looking at a gaggle of military woman wearing what they see Hawkeye in everyday, that military-grade skirt. He is looking at women as he makes the tiny, little comment and everyone laughs because, obviously, he means that all the _women_ officers should wear miniskirts. They all understand that it is a joke (well, sort of) and they all move on. It is a comment designed to be immediately forgotten.

Except Jean doesn't forget about it.

Jean thinks about it like a man for all of twenty minutes, about getting to see long legs every day at work, silky smooth and visible. And then… and then behind him Fuery calls out a simple greeting ("Good morning, Colonel Mustang!") and Jean's brain suddenly, immediately morphs his daydream of dark-haired Susan from accounting with a micro mini on, into a daydream of dark-haired Roy Mustang, his superior officer, with a pleated miniskirt wafting in a breeze and… and…

Oh…. _Oh_.

It shouldn't be _oh_, it should be _oh no_ and he should immediately move on from that thought with a full body shudder and a daydream about Betty from the coffee shop making out with Susan from accounting. But the shudder that spasms through him is not disgust. It is arousal. And it ripples through him like a tidal wave, leaving devastation in its wake.

That one wayward thought, a daydream so minor it was barely a blip of consciousness, makes him insane. That's the only thing he can think of to explain why, days later, when he's awakened at the desk afterhours where's he's fallen asleep, to dark, amused eyes, he makes a rash decision. He leans up and kisses Roy Mustang right on the mouth.

He gets punched, quite soundly, in the jaw. Mustang doesn't fire or report him, but he leaves it to Jean to explain away the violent bruise that darkens one side of his face for almost a week.

After that Jean tries to forget it, but his brain is adamant that it has found a new Shining Star for all its dreams, both day and night, and that said star makes it very hard for Jean to look his boss in the eye every morning without recalling the images. A stream of cigarette smoke spilling from one mouth to the next as they sloppily kiss. A tie being used as a blindfold. Handcuffs put to use. A pleated skirt falling across creamy, masculine thighs, its hem inching higher and higher by a pair of wanton hands.

He's ready to resign to living in a state of constant aching need when his smoke break is interrupted by the colonel slamming his way outside, a look of dark fury on his face. Jean opens his mouth to ask what's wrong, but stills the question before he voices it. There's something in Mustang's face that says this is about a lot of things. Maybe Fullmetal and the Gate, maybe the Fuhrer and the Homunculus, maybe a little girl being turned into a chimera, maybe a best friend dead in the ground, maybe something else. But there's nothing Jean can do to help or fix any of those things in this moment, so he stands there, leaning against the wall, cigarette still held to his lips, as Mustang stares at him in incomprehension for a long moment. It's unnerving, watching the play of thoughts he doesn't understand flit across that face. He doesn't know what they mean. He doesn't know what it means when he seems the glint of recognition in those dark eyes or an expression of resolve settle across them.

He only understands that suddenly he's crowded against the wall and there's a tongue mixing with the smoke in his mouth. The hands fisted on his lapels are trembling.

Jean is not a dumb man. It only takes him a week to understand what it is that Mustang is looking for from this. More than closeness and release and a tumble with someone who won't want anything from him. He wants to not be in charge. He wants to not have the life and death of people cradled in the palm of his hand. He wants to be the one being told what to do.

And Jean, Jean with the wild fantasies, Jean who has had blue balls for the past two weeks, who get a hard-on every time he sees Mustang in the office, is only too happy to oblige.

There are things that Mustang likes more than Jean. Mustang likes to be tied up, wrists crisscrossed and handcuffed over his head to a bedpost, eyes blindfolded, open and vulnerable and one hundred percent not in charge. He likes when Jean teases him and ignores his begging and pleading, his breathless cries and wanton thighs. He likes when Jean slaps his ass for not listening when he's told to keep quiet and to keep still. Mustang likes to be told what and how and for his opinion to mean nothing. Jean is always good to him, never hurts him, always gives him pleasure. But Mustang loves to be fucked by someone in charge. So those days Jean lets the cigarette rasp enter his voice as he drawls his orders. "Roll over." "Stop moving." "Open your mouth." "Be quiet and I'll let you come." His hands are demanding and possessive as they slide up the length of ribs and fist in glossy hair, pulling back just shy of painful to reveal a long line of throat. He suck bruises into the frantically beating pulse as he slides in, spit slicked and with no preparation. Mustang loves the burn of pain, it makes his fingers scramble against their bonds, makes his throat vibrate with the desire to moan. But he was told to be quiet and he wants to be good, but –

"Let me hear you."

The command is the trigger he was waiting for and the groan that rattles from his chest is guttural and sobbing. Once he starts, he can't stop. It's like a dam has broken inside of him. Jean mumbles nonsense against his shoulder blades, rocking into him. And when he comes in a shuddering jerk, Jean holds him when the shudders are more from tears and never says anything.

Jean likes to see Roy in the bath tub in his ridiculously upscale and lavish apartment. He knows that Mustang had probably never used it until Jean made the suggestion, but he's being swayed to see the appeal. The steam is hazy and fine, like smoke, but damp. Jean loves to see the water drip through ebony hair, loves to see those long porcelain limbs sluice through the water. He loves to see the Flame Alchemist dripping and damp, at his mercy, relaxed and easy and so painfully shy that Jean knows, irrevocably and certainly, that all those countless women Roy Mustang was famous for bedding were nothing more than notches on his bedpost. There was no closeness or warmth.

So Jean likes to take his time. The first time he washes Mustang's hair he thinks that he's never seen someone so poised and proud, blush so much in his life. He likes a slow build on those nights, long languid strokes of his hands, meant to keep the fire at a simmer, not too fast too soon. He likes to lean Mustang back between the cradle of his hips and let his hands roam as he rocks across the perfect buttocks in front of him. He never thought that this was something he would enjoy, having been such a horny and rough and tumble youth and young adult. But there is something about the gentle climb that is worth it.

But then there are things they both enjoy.

"_Yes_… unf! Fuck!... _yeesss_, oh God, fuck, fuck! Jean _Jean_, fuck – " The next string of words in rendered unintelligible when Jean slams their mouths together and slides his tongue passed bruised lips.

"Holy shit, Roy." He murmurs directly against that panting mouth, his hips mindlessly rutting and trying to alleviate the pressure in his balls from when he'd suddenly gone from six to midnight a few minutes ago.

"Been waiting for hours." He hiccups on a breath when Jean jerks his hips forward involuntarily. For hours? For _hours_ he'd sat behind his desk, waiting for everyone to leave, hoping no one noticed that, at some point, he'd left his pants in a crumbled heap under his desk and slipped into a dark blue miniskirt. "Come fuck me," he's said when Jean, the last person in the office, had entered.

The sight had made him harder than a rock and he was only too happy (and too quick) to oblige. He entertained a brief fantasy of bending Mustang over the desk like he had last week in the library after hours, but no, maybe next time. This time, he wanted to see the look on Roy's face when he fell apart. So he tugged Roy to him, and spun his around to slam his back against the heavy oak office door. Mustang was already tugging at Jean's belt as they fell together. When the belt came loose, he gave his pants and boxers a tug, hissing when the cool air touched his enflamed skin.

"Jean – "

He doesn't waste any time grabbing Mustang by the hips and bodily lifting him from the floor, pinning him against the wall with his legs falling open so he can crowd in between them with a sigh. The skirt hikes up deliciously leaving nothing between them since Havoc discovers that there's nothing underneath them. "_Fuck me_," he hisses.

"That's my line, lieutenant." The military brass in Mustang's voice makes Jean shudder and sway forward with want, but Roy is already leaning forward to breathe in the shell of his ear. "And I'm all ready for you."

Oh, holy shit. Jean almost blacks out from the image of Roy fingering himself in this office as he waits for to be fucked springs unbidden to his mind. He's never going to be able to set foot in this office again without getting a boner.

But that line is all the invitation he needs to reach down with one hand, line himself up, and slide home. They both gasp at the abrupt feeling of heat and fullness. Roy's head is thrown back, thudding against the door with a bang, and Jean lets his head slump against Roy's shoulder. Breathing harshly through his nose, he gives himself a moment to center himself, wanting this to last, but knowing that it will be a quick and hard one.

Roy squirms against the wall and Jean grabs him by the hips to still the movement. Mustang keens. "_Jean_ – " And that's all he needs to start thrusting into that tight, wet, heat that's sucking the very life from him with every slow roll of hips, with every scramble and scratch of nails across the fabric at his shoulders, with every crushing clench of thighs. "Oh God, yesyesfuck! – _harder_unf!_harder_ – fuck"

There's nothing but the thrust of his hips as he stands there, pinning Mustang to the wall like a butterfly on a corkboard. He knows come tomorrow there will probably be ten bruises that perfectly match his finger pads on Mustang's hips, but all he does is grip them firmer and pull them wider so he can sink deeper into that heat. There's a repetitive thump-thumping as Roy's head hits the door and it probably hurts, but it doesn't seem to be bothering him, if the way his head is thrashing from side to side, his pupils blown wide in his flushed face, are anything to go by. There is a constant stream of expletives and moans falling from his lips like sinful symphony, a constant stream of "yes" and "fuck" and "more" and "harder" that Jean does his best to comply with.

He wishes he could fuck Roy here for an hour – against the door and the desk and even the damn window facing Central – but he can already feel the tightening in his gut that meant that this wasn't going to last. He shifts his grip so he can reach one hand between them to grasp Roy's dripping length and pump it in time to his thrusts. Mustang arches against him like a cat in heat at the motion, yowling as he spills himself across their stomachs. The tightening of those walls is all it takes to send Jean over the edge. He grabs Roy's hip with his slick hand and snaps his hips forward, once, twice, three time so hard it rattles the pictures on the wall. Mustang gives a hiccupping groan with every motion, his inner walls clenching like a vice that soon sucks Jean's own release from him.

When he can focus again, his legs are shaking and he doesn't even try to stay standing, instead letting the two of them collapse in a tangle of limbs and release and fabric at the foyer of Mustang's office. They are both breathing like winded racehorses, their breath rattling in this lungs, their spent lengths still twitching spasmodically with aftershocks. Jean knows they should get up, clean themselves, leave. It's late, but there's always a chance someone could come back, a million ways they could be caught.

But for now, it's enough to catch his breath entwined with Roy, and coming up with a plan to see if Mustang would wear a pair of heels next time.


End file.
